Almanac

Under the wing of producer Kevin McMahon, the duo was able to flesh out arrangements and let their music mature.

Widowspeak’s greatest accomplishment is maintaining that same sense of simmering, uncertain wonder over the course of one wonderfully blurry album.

All in all, seemingly indebted to many, this is a band equipped with new-found confidence, poise and an incredibly impressive sophomore effort.

As with Real Estate, producer Kevin McMachon has coaxed the wispy dreaminess of an excellent debut into a progressive, immersive successor.

Almanac, on the whole, is warmer, more confident and polished than Widowspeak’s self-titled entrée. Enthusiasts along with those on the fence may well find themselves bewitched.

Almanac proves that Widowspeak can embrace more traditional sounds without feeling stuffy, as well as make music that's much more eclectic than might have been expected.

Niche though it may be, it is far more organic and authentic for experimenting with the folk model than the plethora of records churned out by ersatz acts.

The result is a whirlwind of a record, tight but decidedly fleshed-out, doting on death but still affirming life, and definitive proof that Widowspeak looks and sounds best in rapturous tones of earth.

At first it sounds like scratchy old vinyl, but actually it's the crackle of fire that leads off the warm and sumptuous new album from Brooklyn's Widowspeak.

While the songs retain their verse-chorus-verse clarity, the newfound breadth of the music orchestrates and enriches lyrics that take the long view.

The sound of a home recording project cohering into a band and darn good one at that. [Mar-Apr 2013, p.102]

If you’re willing to spend some time in Widowspeak’s headspace, chances are you’ll find yourself wanting to roam Almanac’s enchantingly surreal landscapes a little longer each time you visit.

Without a singular narrative to tie it all together besides Hamilton's lovely but noncommital exhalations, it's a little too easy to lose interest.

A few of the tunes seem to want to ape the front cover of waterfalls and Jesus-long hair ("Sore Eyes," "Locusts" etc.) but most of Almanac is able to bring a love of the past into the right now and (usually) make it seem effortless.

In ramping up their scope--a laudable and understandable idea really for a second LP--Widowspeak instead often lose sight of their strengths, too often not seeing the wood for the trees. Indeed, it’s when they’re seemingly less sure of where they are that Almanac excels.

It’s accomplished, mixing studied nostalgia with current concerns, but not a standout in its field.

The band’s neurotically smoldering dream pop plays it cute and creepy--mashing up the doom-whispering Ambien-elegance of Mazzy Star, Fleetwood Mac at their witchiest, Cat Power at her clawiest, murder-tinged country ballads and steamy psychedelic vertigo.

Lashings of reverb and experimentation with acoustic instruments draw the music into something much more evocative.

Thanks to the similarities in vocal styles, it’s easy to compare Widowspeak with other acts around, and it’s fair to say that there’s plenty here for fans of such acts to admire. However, there’s also more here for anyone willing to look deeper, especially if you’re fond of a little country-tinged drama with your reverb and wistful vocals.

Armed with bolstered production and the band's strongest songcraft to date, Alamanac represents not only the next step for Widowspeak, but perhaps the next point in our never-ending discussion of what "real" folk is in the 21st century.

More often than not, they miss, retreating back instead of charging forward.